


Overfalls

by outerrims



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, non workplace appropriate feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerrims/pseuds/outerrims
Summary: If Edward could stand and walk again, he’d go north. Wouldn’t look at the miserable half-circle of frozen tents, the blackened, smoking pit at the center of them like a rotted wound. It would be such a simple thing, to retrace his steps, to return to what he never should have left. If only he could stand.  || canon!verse joplittle from beginning to end.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 16
Kudos: 38





	Overfalls

_When the morning comes, Edward can no longer stand._

_Sunrise edges the barren horizon, and a sharp, cold wind snaps the canvas of his tent, ruffling his hair. The air is thin with the barest scent of a dying cookfire, something charred beneath it. He sees no movement outside, nor hears any more low, fevered arguing. Perhaps they cannot stand, either. Though it’s just as likely that they’ve left him with the other dead._

_He is beyond hunger, but pain haunts his limbs, chases each breath. His heartbeat falters in his chest. It’s too late to drag himself across the shale to the fire, even if he wanted to. He tells himself that it won’t be long now; he’s been telling himself that for days. Neither dread nor relief accompanies this prospect; only bitter longings, the weight of failure crushing him._

_If he could stand and walk again, he’d go north. Wouldn’t look at the miserable half circle of tents, the blackened, smoking pit at the center of them like a rotted wound. It would be such a simple thing, to retrace his steps, to return to what he never should have left. If only he could stand._

_~_

Thomas let out a long, slow breath and pressed his thumbs down the ragged ridge in his thigh, all the way to the knee. The old scar ached, as it sometimes did in the cold and damp, but soon he knew he would not be able to notice. There was simply too much to do, too many places to be, too many people to meet; and most importantly of all, in three days they would strike out northwest, and he had much to finish before then.

Soon he would no longer be able to enjoy complete solitude on the Terror, wander its decks without being accosted by anyone, their requests and glances, the weight of silent expectation bearing down on him as he worked. He would never complain, and in truth found both purpose and enjoyment in his profession, but even so there were some days when he ached to go where he willed, say what he wished without the fearful impulse to edit. He would not have the opportunity to wander without purpose beyond his own amusement aboard the Terror for many long years.

With a satisfied smile, Thomas rolled to his feet before striding quickly from his quarters. The morning was still young, misty grey light trickling down from between minuscule gaps in the boards, swirling beyond the hatches, and the air was heavy with the scent of pitch and resin. Perhaps he was lucky, and Crozier had not yet woken.

Because this was his last moment of freedom and solitude, he drifted through the decks. Her upper levels were open and wide, but lower the hallways were overstuffed with provisions and barely broad enough to accommodate a man’s shoulders; funny that it should be so on a bomb vessel, where the spaces on the brig-sloop he’d sailed before he joined the Discovery Service could account for twice that. But sloops were built for shorter voyages and speed; no need to weigh her down with provisions for two hundred men drawn out over five years.

He missed that speed, sometimes. A stiff wind at your back, purpose blazing in your heart. The difference between four and fourteen knots felt like the gulf between crawling and flying; close your eyes and you might forget that you were not. Ahead, people in trouble, at the hands of evil men. It had been important work, and it was important to him, to do something useful.

With a huff, Thomas set his shoulders straight before veering into the wardroom. He ought not wallow. The Discovery Service was important work too, and Crozier was the best captain he’d ever served under. That day under the unforgiving sun, skidding on a heaving deck in a puddle of his own blood, he had thought his life was over, his purpose wasted; but there had been a different life ahead of him, one not without its necessity. For that, he would always be grateful. He told himself that every day.

A lone melody drifted up from between the floorboards, and Thomas realized with a jolt that he was no longer alone. The song was wordless, insubstantial as the morning mist that swirled over the water, yet something about it settled deep into his bones; the quality of the voice, the purity of tone. The melody was noble, yet sad; as he listened, a shiver ran up his spine. He set out to investigate.

Dismay leeched his ebullient mood; he hadn’t been as alone as he thought, which meant his morning indulgence was over before it had truly begun. As he searched the ship for the haunting voice, he saw a pair of strangers in civilian dress hauling a trunk to one of the cabins on the upper deck, guided by an official from the docks, and understanding dawned; one of the officers was moving in. Though it was odd; they weren’t supposed to be here for another two days.

He found the culprit on the orlop. His back was to Thomas, and his humming had obscured the sound of any advancing footsteps, so his attention remained undisturbed. He lifted one hand to brush his fingers against the seam between bulkhead and beam, and the melody trailed off. With a little huff of a laugh, he rapped one knuckle against the wood, testing the sound it made before resuming his song. Thomas knew he should say something, or better yet leave, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away; he had somehow wandered into another’s ritual appreciation, so very much like his own. Every sailor had one. But this man touched the ship the way one might greet a beloved animal, a living creature that breathed and bellowed and sighed.

“Excuse me?” Thomas said, attempting to stifle his ridiculous, completely unwarranted reaction. “Can I help you?”

The stranger looked over his shoulder, a half-heartbeat of a pause, then turned, and it forced the breath from Thomas’ lungs. His features looked much like his voice sounded; melancholy mingled with kindness, you could see it in that soft mouth and those dark eyes, hooded by shadow. “Oh,” he said, backing away from the bulkhead, and his hand dropped to his side, as if Thomas had caught him in some illicit act. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You hadn’t,” Thomas said, sharper than he intended; he was more unbalanced than he wanted to admit, and it frayed his typical control. He affected a more pleasant expression. “You must be one of the new lieutenants.”

“I am.” The man strode forward, hand outstretched. “Lieutenant Edward Little.”

The Executive Officer? Thomas supposed it made sense he’d show up a few days before everyone else; had he been in a more optimistic frame of mind, he would have given the lieutenant credit for his eagerness to get to work, as it matched his own sensibilities. He reached out and took Little’s hand – and nearly drew away, as if scalded. He had been wearing gloves, but he had felt the heat of Little’s hand in his palm, the strength of his fingers, and knew instantly that this dark-eyed officer was going to be a problem.

“Thomas Jopson. The Captain’s steward.” He shook a few times with vigor, to make up for his goggle-eyed pause. “The Captain wasn’t expecting you for another two days.”

Little brightened. “He’s already here, then?”

Why shouldn’t he be? “Yes. He has much left to address.”

“I do, as well.” A self-deprecating shrug. “I at least ought to know the ship before we set out.”

It was something Crozier did as well, which endeared Thomas to the stranger, despite himself; he could respect diligence. “He’ll want to see you as soon as you’re finished.”

Lieutenant Little cleared his throat and looked away, a flush of color rising in his cheeks. Thomas could have cursed him that unfairly endearing reaction; he hadn’t even said anything particularly embarrassing. “It’s fine,” Little said, backing away from the bulkhead, and Thomas finally understood; the ritual was private, and it embarrassed him to be caught. “I’ve finished.”

There was something a little tender in the realization, something sweet.

“I’ll take you to him, then.”

~

The second thing Thomas noticed about the new executive officer were his impeccable manners. They were effortless, unthinking, which indicated breeding and early education; not the desperate study in later years one of his own means was forced to undertake. This alone wouldn’t have been a cause for concern, yet it put Thomas on edge, though he knew he had no acceptable reason to be wary. It was only that Lieutenant Little came from a world he’d only seen from the outside, observed from a position of remove. He wasn’t wearing a studied, unnatural accent.

Their previous First Lieutenant from the last expedition hadn’t liked him at all, which made for an uncomfortable handful of years, as he and the executive officer were often in each other’s paths, due to their proximity to the captain. Thomas wasn’t sure what had first turned the man against him; a fair assumption would be his station and its attending concerns, but it was unfair to attribute such a petty response without further proof beyond his own anxiety. His conduct had been curt, often rude; more than once Thomas had caught the lieutenant looking at him the way one might regard a particularly disgusting insect, his lips curled in distaste. Should this new officer prove as difficult, Thomas would make the best of it. He always did.

The third thing he noticed (unhappily), was that Crozier already referred to the man by his given name, which suggested a history about which Thomas knew nothing. After the business of preparation for their voyage had been concluded, they spoke for the rest of the morning, and well into the afternoon, catching up on previous postings and personal matters, their conversation punctuated every now and then by Crozier’s subdued chuckling. Thomas hadn’t heard the sound in a long time.

He busied himself about Crozier’s cabin and the hallway beyond, though careful not to range so far that he could no longer eavesdrop. It wasn’t difficult, as Crozier spoke with a captain’s voice; its volume and intensity could cut through the howling of a gale. Lieutenant Little’s voice was somewhat softer, a voice made for introspection, intense conversations in undertones. He found himself straining to catch every word, to parse them carefully and take the measure of him. The more quickly he was able to do so, the better.

(The fourth thing Thomas noticed was, from the way he held his fork, that Little seemed to be left-handed. Not that it mattered much. But he hoarded details, mannerisms; people fascinated him. One could better control a situation when they knew its players, or at least his own response.) 

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sir,” Little was saying. “I thought I’d tour the ship first before I came to see you.”

“No need to apologize,” Crozier said with a grin, before downing the rest of his drink. “What did that old mate from _Donegal_ used to say? The one with the four fingers on his left hand. I forget his name …”

It took him a moment of thought, but then Little smiled minutely (fifth object of torment: his smile). “I remember; it was Hadleigh. He would say she has good bones.” 

“Well, Edward? Would you say _Terror_ has good bones?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about bones to compare with any authority, sir,” Little replied, with such a straight face that Thomas couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “But so far, she looks to be a good ship. I will know for certain when I see how she handles on the water.”

Crozier laughed; it was a test, and that had been the right answer. The Captain didn’t have much patience with the career officers looking to advance themselves; he wanted the men who served under him to love the sea as much as he did. The sixth thing Thomas noticed about Lieutenant Little is that they shared this sensibility.

Thomas wanted to hear more, anxious as he was to puzzle out more of this stranger’s temperament, but he had run out of work to invent in Crozier’s cabin. Regretfully, he straightened the last of Crozier’s books and slipped away, closing the door softly behind him. Perhaps he could finish the rest of his tasks before the stranger took his leave. He was more than a little tempted to rush through his actual duties (and not ones that he invented on the spot), but no stranger was interesting enough for him to actively choose a mediocre effort.

By the time he returned aft, both officers had retreated to their respective haunts; Lieutenant Little’s door was closed, but Thomas could hear muffled sounds from within, likely from him unpacking his belongings. Crozier’s cabin was silent; after hesitating a few moments, Thomas rapped his knuckles against the door. “Come in!” came the call from the other side.

Crozier looked up when he heard Thomas step over the threshold. “What is it, Jopson?” he asked, turning back to his maps.

“I wanted to see if anything else needed doing, sir.” The excuse sounded flimsy to his ears; even more unfortunately, it was for nothing.

“You’ve done just about everything, twice over. How many times have you straightened my books?”

“You keep disturbing them, sir.”

Crozier smiled. “Had you met the Lieutenant before?” he asked, eyeing him speculatively.

Thomas kept his face very still. The Royal Navy was a small world with an atmosphere irrevocably clouded by rumor, so such association wouldn’t be uncommon, yet the question made Thomas anxious; had his preoccupation been so obvious? He would need to work harder at concealing his thoughts. “I hadn’t.”

Crozier fixed him with a thoughtful look, tapping the table with the side of his thumb. “He’s nothing like our last First Lieutenant. Which is part of the reason I asked for him, in fact.”

“That’s a relief to hear, sir.” Thomas admitted. If anything was trustworthy in this world, it was Crozier’s judgment.

“I expected it might be.” Crozier’s expression soured. “Kind of Sir John to allow me the indulgence of selecting a second for myself,” he said as he rolled his glass on the base’s edge, his voice ripe with sarcasm. Still nursing the slight, Thomas thought with dismay. They had been reunited for less than an hour before Crozier let his grievances air; Commander Fitzjames had chosen the crews for both ships, a duty normally reserved for Crozier’s position. He had naturally staffed the expedition with friends, men he knew from previous assignments, who were, incidentally, strangers to Crozier. In Thomas’ opinion, it was thoughtless and foolish, and set a bad precedent; shouldn’t a captain at least be allowed to select the men who would execute his orders? But no one was asking for his opinion.

Thomas understood some of the familiarity between them, then; it wasn’t just that they’d served together in the past, but that Crozier had selected Little himself, overruling the stipulations of his superiors in this one respect. Little must be competent indeed for such intervention. He seemed steady enough, knew his business, his affect pleasant, yet controlled; but there was something beneath it that fascinated Thomas, the odd, uncomfortable sense of knowing without remembering. For once, for a brief moment that he quickly squashed, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t look more; he wanted to know more. And that was most dangerous of all.

“You may go, Jopson. I know where to find you should I need anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon pacing circuits in the lower decks, searching for something to occupy his hands and mind. It was only after he’d escaped to his own cabin and yanked the curtain back in place that he let himself sag against the wall. Nettled and intrigued, thrilling with an instinct he’d never known, he pressed one hand to his chest, as if to restrain the wild pace of his heart in a shaking fist.

The first thing he’d noticed were Edward Little’s eyes. 

~

Edward had weathered his fair share of storms during his time in the Royal Navy. Should he care to ponder, it seemed as if he had the particular luck in being assigned temperamental waterways – the Mediterranean, the South Atlantic, and now the most inhospitable place known to man, the Arctic Circle. So far from civilization, from the familiar rules of nature, that not even the most trustworthy of compasses could find north while beneath its stultifying influence.

He had survived much, yet he couldn’t remember many more harrowing excursions than tonight’s supper.

It was the first of many. He sat at a fine mahogany table in the Terror wardroom and struggled against the maddening impulse to itch under his left cuff. Though this was only the first of many meals in the wardroom, already he suspected they would become a trial from which there was no hope of escape. Weary extrapolation spooled out in his thoughts: There were only so many times one could beg off over a sour stomach or sick headache, after all, and it wouldn’t do to use up the excuse within the first month of the voyage. Also, he must always be conscious of the example he set. People could tell when you didn’t want to be around them; at least they could when it came to Edward.

“This is exceptional,” Hodgson said, dabbing politely at his mouth with his napkin. “What did you say the cook’s name was?”

“Mr. Diggle,” Edward put in automatically; he didn’t know everyone’s faces yet, but he’d memorized the roster.

“I must pass along my compliments, then.” No one responded, and the weak conversation died an ignoble death.

It wouldn’t be so unpleasant if the officers on both ships eventually learned to do more than tolerate one another’s presence. For now, they were professional, since protocol demanded it, but there was no mistaking the forced quality of infrequent discussion, or the awkward note in the silence, as each at the table struggled for a subject to share among those he’d rather not. It could portend more awkward meals, but Edward decided not to interpret it as an omen. He wasn’t sure he believed in those, anyway.

Edward rolled the fine silver folk between his fingers, setting it down on its edge. Perhaps if he counted the stitching on the napkin, the delicate twining of rosebuds on the border of his plate, the minutes would pass without his knowing. The company was acceptable (he liked Crozier and tolerated his fellow lieutenants), the food much more decadent than standard ship fare. If nothing else, it was a chance to take refuge in a quieter part of the ship, where conversation was carried in a neutral, unimposing tone; accompanied only by politely scraping silver and the endless creak of the hull as they cut west through the Atlantic at four knots. Mild distractions easily indulged, should he have wanted to.

But it would never be safe to let his mind wander during these meals. For all their charms and annoyances, the sum could not negate the risk posed by Crozier’s steward.

Jopson was making the rounds with decanter in hand, ready to top off the empty glasses on table. Each officer nodded in acknowledgement but gave little else. Edward’s glass was empty, and there was no way he could politely decline; the moment Jopson neared his thoughts scattered, like a handful of dust in a whirlwind. Jopson appeared behind him as if by magic; silently, his presence lay in suggestion. He offered Edward a polite smile that didn’t touch his eyes, reaching past his shoulder to pour into his glass. And Edward tried not to look, for he knew his expression would betray his ridiculous thoughts, they always did – his mother said his face was a window to his heart, hadn’t she always liked to tease him – but now Edward couldn’t help it, not with them right in front of his eyes; those wrists, Jopson’s long, graceful fingers … he had never seen such beautiful hands in his life.

Edward managed an awkward smile of his own, but by then Jopson had moved on to Irving, and the moment had gone. He resolved not to look again, at his hands or any other part, lest he give himself completely away. Foolish, ridiculous; to be undone by such innocuous detail, and on a complete stranger. He was often annoyed with himself, never more so than now.

Many years ago, he had tried to explain his peculiarity to Mary, on one of the excursions their parents contrived in an effect to occupy their attention, back when such a thing was a concern. “It’s their hands,” he had explained, stretching out his own for emphasis. The effect was lost for her, as his hands were square and blunt; their sole virtue lay in the fact that they functioned. “Next time we go to a recital, pay attention to their hands.”

“What should I look for?” she inquired with a half-smile. “Will I find myself under the thrall of some spell? Swept away at a glance, trapped in love?” Humoring him, undoubtedly, but perhaps she’d remember what he said when she didn’t feel like playing games.

He sighed at her look. “It’s nothing arcane. Rather, it’s …the skill. Their fingers move so quickly you don’t believe they could produce enough force a single note, and yet one comes; by that time, the musician has already bounded ahead five notes or more, and you must struggle to keep up. How quickly their minds must move.”

He left unspoken that there had been a time when he longed to play the music he loved, but those days had nearly faded from memory; he didn’t even recall what it was that had induced him to give up the aspiration. Likely his own passing interest, for once he’d set out on the sea, he had thought of nothing else, could think of nothing else. In this way, his current profession suited him in a way no other ever would. It allowed him to see the world, places that most people couldn’t even imagine, for no man had laid eyes on them before – even if that place was the open flat of a glass sea, untouched by even a breeze. He liked the feel of ships, the sound of water lapping at the hull and the creaking and howling wind through the rigging, and always some conversation just a few floorboards away. He loved the way the ship felt gliding on open water, with a stiff breeze behind them, the gentle lurch forward when good wind caught an open sail, or the way the frame shifted and rocked during a lull. He had better footing on that unsteady deck than solid ground; after months on assignment it always took him a few weeks to stop wobbling around, holding the sides of walls and fences for balance. One could almost mourn they were only men, without gills or wings, with which to truly appreciate the world they pursued, but a good ship more than made up for it.

Hodgson did his cheerful best to sustain a conversation with two unwilling participants, but Crozier spent the meal in a sullen haze, and Edward was too stressed by the vaguely hostile steward and his obnoxiously beautiful hands to contribute much of interest. The more earnestly Edward forced himself not to look again, the more desperate the impulse became. As soon as Crozier stood to leave, Edward followed suit with a hasty excuse. He wondered if it were possible for him to take his meals in his cabin, away from people. Likely not; it would set a poor example.

He had no work to attend to, no consuming task with which to distract from his thoughts, so, for want of anything better to do, he made his way topside. The ship hummed with sound; boisterous conversations were everywhere, swirling around him without ever touching. It would be an interesting test to see if he could traverse the length of the ship without being noticed; on assignment, he was a function more than a man, and that was how he liked it. He didn’t have to remind himself of that as often anymore.

Edward stepped onto the upper deck. The air was brisk, not yet cold; the sea a flat calm, still and clear as glass. He stared for a long time, hypnotized by the curvature of the horizon, always bending away toward the unknown. It had only been a few hours since they struck out from Greenhithe, yet home had already disappeared, a place so complete when you stood upon its face, now nothing more than a smoky grey-green strip of land clinging to the curve between sky and sea, before finally sinking beneath the waves. Only that endless blue remained, blending above and below the longer he looked, and something about its incredible vastness lodged his heart in his throat, made his blood sing. This was another world, a stark place he knew well; its storms were more comfortable and familiar than the mildest of days on land. He had been away too long.

A gust of wind whistled through the rigging, rising and falling, a ghostly chorus. He shrugged deeper into his longcoat and resigned himself to another lonely assignment. He had been an officer for nearly a decade, and was familiar with the expectations his position entailed, though that didn’t change the weight of silence that accompanied it. The officers’ supper two months before their departure had left him with a poor impression of his fellows, though to be fair, he figured that had as much to do with his dislike of parties than with their temperaments.

In the interest of facilitating a better working relationship and dispelling his first judgments, Edward had sought them out the day before launch. The Second Lieutenant, George Hodgson, was genial enough, if somewhat boring; he admitted to playing the clavier, which had interested Edward until the man enumerated upon his favorites – dance hall ditties, the kind of music that grated on Edward’s nerves. The Third Lieutenant, John Irving, had perked up at his interest and asked him to admire a magnificent bible he had brought along; each book began with a delicate illumination, and its gilded edges were faded from many years of loving use. When he pressed Edward for a favorite chapter and verse, Edward ransacked his memory for something appropriate. Clearly, the younger man hoped to forge some common ground between them, which was admirable enough; Edward didn’t mention that his attachment to God and his word had been ambivalent at the best of times, far less so recently. The only verses he actually remembered were the horrible, the grotesque, the inconsistent and cruel. In the darkest days of his grief, he made an obsessive study of it, methodically transcribing each, laying them out as evidence.

But the Third Lieutenant could know nothing of this. The last thing he wanted to do was make an enemy or arouse suspicion; he could not confide his fury or his doubts to such a recipient, which meant every diplomatic interaction would be an untruth. Edward had offered a cursory verse half-remembered from his childhood and an equally flimsy excuse before retreating, a little more quickly than was strictly necessary.

So ended his idle, childish hope of more than professional friendliness between himself and his fellow officers, which spelled the end of any thoughts of camaraderie at all; he could no more rub elbows with those he was expected to order about. Such a thing normally didn’t matter, he thought with increasing dismay; perhaps the last year had rattled him, permanently altered his perspective, rearranged his priorities. He couldn’t remember ever being satisfied with this stipulation, which was impossible, as he’d followed it so faithfully for so long.

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted back to the captain’s steward and his uncomfortably penetrating gaze; his eyes pale as morning mist. He didn’t know Jopson from another post, nor had he heard anything from anyone else in the service, which was odd enough; a more miserable rumor mill never existed. One would have an easier time finding the Passage with his eyes closed and hands bound behind his back than escape its notice unscathed. Edward dealt with them by keeping such a stolid routine and affect that no one bothered with him; assuming, hopefully, that silence indicated a lack of substance, or if anything was there to pick over, it wouldn’t capture the group interest enough to justify the effort in securing it. So far, both in society and aboard on assignment, he’d gone mostly unnoticed beyond the requirements of duty. Which was the way he preferred it. At least, it had been; he could not account for the hollow feeling in his chest now, the increasing sense of something missing. An aching lack.

Though he had no concrete evidence to support his anxieties, he couldn’t escape the sensation that he had been thoroughly dissected by Thomas Jopson and found wanting in some way. Nor could he forget the jolt he’d felt as that perplexing stranger had greeted him and taken his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thomas: (ur really attractive either marry me or stay out of my sight forever)  
> edward: (i did something wrong somehow but what)


End file.
